Unsure if he wants company, I stand awkwardly beside him for a moment then start to turn away.
“You can sit if you want.”
I take a seat on the sofa to the left of him. The flickering and crackling of the flames induces an almost hypnotizing effect, and I let the stillness of the room wash over me. I can feel my muscles unbunching, the stiffness in my shoulders easing. As much as I put on an unaffected front, the past few weeks have been a fucking tornado of death, fear, anticipation, and disappointment. From the rush of killing off the trafficking ring to the adrenaline of the plane spiraling out of control, to the disappointment of my father still living to the necessary act of killing Andrea—it’s been a lot. So to be able to sit for a moment and just breathe is bliss.
After a few minutes of silence, I find myself wondering about Ryan. Now that I know Jase’s and Kian’s stories, I’m curious to know his as well. “What made you start the Charon Group?”
Ryan flicks a glance my way, then turns back to the flames. I’m sure he’s going to ignore my question, but then he begins talking, and I find myself sitting forward, so I don’t miss a word.
“I was fresh out of college when I went drinking with friends one night. Some shitty bar in the Bronx, I can’t remember which one now. We sat around a table, eating our weight in chicken wings and nachos as we drank watered-down beers and talked a lot of bullshit. I can no longer recall the whole of the conversation, but by the end of the night, as we staggered out of the bar, high on life, one idea had rung clear; what if we could help people? The ones no one else could or would?”
I huff a laugh. “The dreams we have when we’re young, right?”
The corner of Ryan’s mouth lifts, and he tilts his head in agreement.
“It was an idea that went on hold as I spent the next four years in the military as a scout sniper for the Marines. I excelled as a sniper, winning multiple awards, and did two tours in Afghanistan. During that time, I began a friendship with a young woman from White Plains, New York. Lesley was one of those truly good people, the kind you don’t think really exist. A kindergarten teacher with a heart of gold, she was the type to send letters to lonely servicemen, and over the years, we fell in love through our letters.
“She was at the airport waiting for me when my time was served, and we married a year later. Full of hopes and dreams and remembering that conversation amongst friends all those years before, I started the Charon Group.
“My goal was to help people. Kidnapped victims, hostage situations, national security threats; I did it all. Over time, as word of mouth spread, I added more and more people to the business, adding teams as needed.”
Ryan pauses to take a sip of his whiskey, and I can feel the darkness coming over him.
“Lesley was proud of the work I did, and we were happy. Until it ended when a drunk driver ran a red light. Lesley was killed instantly while I was in England working on an international kidnapping.
I knew if she were here that she would never forgive me if I didn’t save the child, so I continued the case, my heart shredded in my chest, as her parents planned the funeral. Once the child was safe and the suspect in custody, I rushed home as quickly as I could, missing the funeral by a day, and finding myself shunned by my in-laws.” His voice grows darker as he talks.
He stares into the flames for a moment, lost in memories, before continuing. “The whispers and condemnation became too much to bear, so I sold our house and moved into the city. Despair, anger, and frustration became my constant companions, and there were days when my rage became so great, I blacked out.I lost weeks of time.
“It was only when I woke one morning to find myself covered in blood, and the news discussing the vicious death of a local man—the one that had killed my wife—that the rage finally dissipated, leaving both a calmness and emptiness of the likes I have never known. I waited for days, then weeks, but the police never came. During that time, I stayed glued to the TV and then started doing research. I became a man obsessed. I had always been a law-abiding man. I knew there were bad people out there, but when you have a good heart, you tend to expect others to as well. Instead, I discovered case after case of rich, powerful men getting away with anything from pedophilia and trafficking to murder and art heists.I saw murderers going free due to technicalities, rapists only receiving a slap on the wrist. Drunk drivers getting community service.”
“And you wanted to do something about it,” I surmise.
Ryan nods. “The Charon Group became something more. Something dangerous. I upped my prices, started taking on more dangerous jobs, uncaring if I lived or died. I put out feelers on the dark web, offering assassinations for hire. With my sniper skills, I could kill anyone from just about anywhere. My only requirement? They could not be innocents. And so the killing started and I locked away the man I used to be.
Now, my team is the one to take care of the assassinations, the rest of the business being fully legitimate, and a front to hide the illegal nature of ours,” Ryan explains.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I murmur, and he gives me a small smile.
“Thank you.”
A throat clearing behind me has me spinning around, my hand at my throat.
The Duke pinches her mouth, narrowing her eyes at us as she looks between the two of us. “Am I interrupting?”
Glancing over at Ryan, I notice he’s straightened his shoulders, and the light has returned to his eyes. Pulling myself to my feet, I wink at The Duke. “Not at all,” I reply. “You two have a nice evening.” I waggle my eyebrows at her and she shoos me away. Taking the hint, I make myself scarce.
Chapter 24
Cruz
Herapartmentisthefirst place I go. When there’s no answer, I let myself inside, using the lockpicking tools I never leave home without. My jaw ticks as I notice the layer of dust covering every surface. Stalking through the small one-bedroom apartment, my agitation grows when I discover her closet door open, empty hangers littering the ground. Dresser drawers sit open, empty and forlorn.
Either Dutch has been robbed or she’s gone.
My hands curl into fists and I smash the mirror hanging lopsidedly above the dresser. The cracked, jagged man staring back at me feels like a much more accurate representation of what I should look like on the outside. Tearing out of the bedroom, I almost knock over an older woman standing in the hall.
“Who are you?” I growl at her, in no mood to be polite. I’m tired after driving all night to get here, only to find her gone.
